


Strapping Young Lads

by ekbe_vile



Category: Constantine (TV), Hellblazer & Related Fandoms
Genre: Aftercare, BDSM, Birthday Spanking, Bondage, Daddy Kink, Dom/sub, Foreplay, Gags, Light Angst, M/M, Shameless Smut, Spanking, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-31
Updated: 2015-05-31
Packaged: 2018-04-02 02:53:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4043068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ekbe_vile/pseuds/ekbe_vile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has control issues; Chas buys him birthday presents.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Strapping Young Lads

**Author's Note:**

> Now edited for idiotic typos.

He’s going to have to do better than handcuffs because John Constantine isn’t just a magician he’s a goddamned escape artist. And while he’s usually pretty good about playing along, both he and Chas know he could slip the cuffs on a whim, and that just takes all the fun out of it.

John will never admit it, but Chas knows that there’s a part of him that gets off on the idea of surrender. It must be exhausting, always fighting to stay in control. What a relief it would be to let go.

With handcuffs, John’s submission is just another trick, an illusion - he could escape any time he wants - he's still in control. But Chas has known John long enough to realize he needs more, and Chas just might be the one person John trusts enough to give it to him.

So Chas makes the drive into Atlanta because he needs supplies, and while it would easier to order online, Chas still isn’t entirely sure the postal service will deliver to the millhouse. He’s not even sure it has an address, and besides, the more discrete the package (as these things tend to be), the higher the probability John will get nosy. And this is supposed to be a _surprise_.

Besides, if he can walk into a butcher’s and order a gallon of blood, “Oh and a pig foetus, if you’ve got it,” then he can handle a sex shop.

(Chas is wrong, he’s so very wrong, but the girl behind the counter is more than happy to make some recommendations.)

*

If Zed knows it’s John’s birthday she hasn't let on, and John makes his usual effort to hide. Which means when Chas gets back to the millhouse, John is busy making himself as unapproachable as possible. Some kind of Gregorian death metal (Chas won’t go so far as to call it music) is blasting loud enough to shake dust from the shelves, and John is sitting in the lotus position, dark smears of _something_ forming esoteric symbols across his chest and his face, while flames crackle in the old coffee can Chas keeps under the sink for bacon grease.

Chas likes to think he has a strong stomach, but the smell of burning fat makes him gag a little. He recognizes the ritual (sort of - something about burning off negative energy that builds up from John’s magic), and even though it does serve a practical purpose, it’s pretty much always been John’s way of ensuring that no one with a sense of smell comes within ten feet of him.

For someone as sensitive as Zed, it’s probably closer to miles. Which explains the absence of her truck, and reassures Chas she won’t be interrupting his plans any time soon.

But it is goddamned near uninhabitable in the belly of the millhouse, between the noise and the smell and the black smoke that should be setting off all kinds of fire alarms if the place were even remotely up to code. (It’s not - Jasper Winters may have taken precautions against supernatural mishaps, but the more mundane threats to life and limb associated with home ownership have been completely overlooked. Chas half expects the place to burn down one day because John fell asleep smoking a cigarette.)

Chas pulls the collar of his shirt up to cover his mouth and nose as he descends the spiral stairs to the library. John must feel the vibration of his steps through the floor because one eye slits open just enough to watch Chas’ progress.

“You gonna be done soon?” Chas asks - has to raise his voice and try again to be heard over the music, one hand fanning away smoke in a vague, all-encompassing gesture.

John just looks at him through that one squinted eye, the expression twisting his face up on one side, and says nothing. As though he is obviously in the middle of something extremely delicate and diverting even this fractional bit of attention to Chas could have disastrous results.

It doesn’t work on Chas the way it might have in the past. “Don’t worry,” he shouts, “take your time! I’ve gotta wrap your presents, anyhow.”

For as slippery a con-artist as John Constantine can be, he’s also as predictable as a child. It sounds like he says, “What presents?” but Chas can’t quite make it out over the music as he’s already turned away and headed back upstairs.

In the kitchen he sets the plain black shopping bag on the table and cracks a beer. He doesn’t have to wait long - the music cuts off and a few moments later John is with him in the kitchen.

“What presents?” John demands, his eyes narrowed and his lip curled like he fully expects to be lead into a trap.

Chas tips his beer toward the shopping bag. “The ones I got for your birthday.”

John’s eyes shoot to the innocuous black bag and for a moment he looks ready to murder someone (Chas being the most likely candidate at present). “Francis,” he says, and his voice comes low and rough with every cigarette he’s ever smoked. “You shouldn’t have.”

Chas shrugs. “I wanted to.”

John laughs and it sounds like the kind of thing he’d follow up with a vicious remark about Renee, but the words get lost when he rolls his eyes back at Chas and sees the look on his face - part hunger, part guilt - the same look he gets whenever John asks him to do something especially filthy. “Oh, Chas,” John tuts, and this time his voice sounds as dirty as the bottom of an ashtray. “What have you done?”

John reaches for the shopping bag, but Chas intercepts, hand locking onto his wrist. “You’ll ruin the surprise,” he scolds.

John frowns, but he doesn’t pull away - steps closer instead, insinuating himself into Chas’ space. “Don’t like surprises,” he says, rolling his hips forward.

It would be harder to push him away, if he didn’t still reek. “Go take a shower,” Chas says. “You smell like a hot day on the bayou.”

John pauses, working out the insult.

“Like _shit_ , John,” Chas clarifies. “You get nothing until you’ve cleaned up.”

And again John looks like he wants to say something nasty, but this is part of the game they play. “Suppose I shouldn’t bother getting dressed when I’m done?” he asks.

Chas hasn’t thought about it, but the answer comes easily. “No. You’ll wait in my room, on the bed.”

John shudders and nods, biting down on his lip, already getting worked up over being bossed around. It wouldn’t make sense, if it weren’t a perfect counterpoint to his typical asshole self. Chas thinks he gets it, the perversity of acting one way when everyone sees you another. Defying conventions, as it were, and nothing gets John going quite like fucking with expectations.

“John?” Chas’ voice stops him at the edge of the hall. “I’ll know if you touch yourself.”

“I won’t, Daddy,” he says, and the way he lets the word drop at the end makes Chas want to grab him and spank the sass out of him right then and there. “Promise.”

He’s a liar and a brat and Chas has to fight the urge to go after him because it’s all part of the game John plays. So he swallows his own impatience and goes to air out the library, glad he’d had the boxes gift-wrapped at the store, thankful for the chance it gives him now to get himself under control because tonight’s not about him, tonight’s about John - and Chas knows better than to let on.

When he’s finally cleared the smoke and the smoldering remnants of pig fat from the library, he makes his way back upstairs to his bedroom. To John’s credit, the black bag is still waiting on the kitchen table, but when Chas tiptoes up to his own closed door and listens (which is not at all creepy, being that it’s his door), he can just make out the distinct puff of breath that says John’s not followed instructions to the letter.

“Are you coming in,” John calls through the door, “or are you just going to have a wank in the hall like me uncle?”

Chas doesn’t startle at the sound of John’s voice, and he certainly doesn’t take a step back. He allows himself a beat to school his face, and then his hand is on the door knob and he’s turning it and stepping inside and not looking at John, _not looking at John_ until he’s pulled the door shut behind him -

And then he’s looking at John, his face in the pillows and his ass in the air, reaching back and fingering himself slippery and loose.

There’s a moment when Chas forgets how to breathe, forgets what he’s doing here, forgets he has a _plan_ and just stares at the creature pleasuring itself on his bed like some kind of dark fairy luring him into its circle.

But then he comes back to himself and growls because he doesn’t like being mocked, even if it is part of the game. “Stop what you’re doing,” he says.

“Or what, you won’t let me open my presents?” John sneers.

Chas doesn’t think - he rises to the challenge and advances across the room in two easy steps. The shopping bag gets tossed on the mattress and his hand comes down hard and fast on John’s ass.

John grunts and lurches forward, his own hands falling to bunch up the sheets. “Jesus Christ, Chas,” he rasps, “give us some _warning.”_

“Already did,” Chas reminds him, smacking his ass again, squeezing, pleased to find John’s skin still soft and pink from the shower.

John makes a petulant noise, but doesn’t argue - instead he pushes back into Chas’ hand, lurid and wanton and thinking he can play Chas for a fool, like always. John is a con artist born and bled - he doesn’t even mean to manipulate people half the time, it just happens, like he knows the chords to a song no one else can hear. He makes it easy to believe in angels.

Chas grabs a fistful of blond hair and jerks John’s head back. “Sit up and open your goddamned presents you ungrateful brat.”

John shudders and obeys. Chas knows that he loves having his hair pulled - knows it makes him feel like a whore, like he’s earning his keep, or maybe paying a debt. Chas typically resists the urge for just that reason...hates wondering if John is with him because he wants him, or because he thinks he owes him.

Chas slides behind John as he takes the first package out of the shopping bag. “You didn’t wrap this,” John scoffs and slides a fingertip along the sharp folds of silver paper, plucks at the twist of black ribbon.

It’s an accusation, suspicious, but Chas pulls John back against his chest and wraps an arm around his waist to play with his hardening cock. “Just fucking open it.”

John makes a pleased murmuring sound, lifts his hips to push into Chas’ hand, but he’s also tearing inelegantly at the wrapping paper and Chas thinks that deserves a reward.

“Thatta boy, Johnny.” Chas kisses and sucks the sensitive spot behind John’s ear, sending a shiver through the smaller man’s body.

“You’ll make a mark,” John warns, though it’s more an observation than a complaint. John Constantine wears every scrape and bruise with pride, especially when they come from Chas, who has always been so careful with his lovers.

Chas nips behind John’s ear, not hard enough to draw blood, but sharp enough to be a promise.

John shudders again and his cock is fully hard in Chas’ hand as he rips into the tissue paper. Folded up all neatly in its box, there’s a moment where Chas wonders if John will even recognize what it is, but this is Constantine in his arms, leaning back against his chest. The leather straps, the buckles, the locks, the soft hand-stitched padding - that’s all it takes to bring a whine up in John’s throat and a drop of precome to the head of his cock.

“Thought you weren’t into it,” John says, and it sounds like he’s trying to be sarcastic or otherwise nasty, but he’s too wound up with perverse glee to make it convincing.

“I’m gonna need something a little sturdier than your tie, tonight,” Chas breathes in John’s ear, lets his beard tickle the folds of cartilage.

John is laughing, a desperate, eager, needy sound. “Well fuck me, mate,” he rasps. “Show me how it works.”

And Chas is happy to oblige, although he takes a beat to review in his head. The straps slide over John’s shoulders like a holster, come together in the middle of his back and then drop another strap down his spine. This one ends in cuffs, one on top of the other, and Chas guides John’s arms back and secures his wrists, one at a time, so that his arms are folded loosely behind him and his hands are bound at the small of his back.

John’s breathing heavy, his head bowed, muscles twitching and testing the new restraints. There’s one more strap to go, but Chas waits, forcing John to take a moment to adjust. “You okay?” he asks, kissing John behind his ear again, nuzzling into the mess of blond hair even as he rubs soothing circles over John’s belly.

It takes another moment, but then the tension eases out of John’s muscles and he nods. “Yeah,” he says, voice gone uncharacteristically soft - a sign, Chas has learned, that John’s already sinking into that submissive headspace.

Which means Chas has to be twice as vigilant. “What color?” he asks, because it’s never been like this before, he’s never seen John go so deep so fast and the contrast of warm brown leather straps against John’s tattooed back is getting Chas hard in his pants and he _needs to hear John say it._

“Green,” comes the answer, and it’s such a relief to hear the word on John’s lips Chas slumps over his back and holds onto him a moment longer than necessary.

“Good boy,” Chas says. “One more.”

This final strap reaches up John’s back, up to his neck, and ends in a collar. They haven’t talked about this before - Chas can imagine the way John would snap and spit at a symbol of ownership - but the collar is part of the harness, providing an extra point of restraint and support. Chas lets John feel the padded leather around his neck, gives him a chance to protest or adjust before buckling the collar under his chin.

“How’s it feel?” Chas asks, checking the straps for pressure points. “Anything pinching or too tight?”

John whines. The sound would be pathetic, but at the end it turns into a desperate, “Daddy,” and it’s all the answer Chas needs.

“Ssh, thatta boy,” Chas soothes him, taking the opportunity to let his hands wander, to touch and trace and really explore John’s body and his scars in a way their usual drunken fumbling denies.

The intimacy makes John uncomfortable. For someone who gets his rocks off on pain, he hates giving up control, hates his own vulnerability. He squirms in the harness, grinding cruelly down onto Chas’ cock, stiff and aching in his pants. “What about my other present, then?” he asks. “Can’t open it like this, can I?”

“No, you sure can’t,” Chas agrees - pushes John forward by the shoulder, pushes until John’s forehead touches his own knees and Chas has enough room to finally get out of his pants. “You want some help, Johnny?”

The second package is right there on the bed, right in front of John, who cranes his neck to glare at it so that for a moment Chas thinks he might actually go for the black ribbon with his teeth. But John’s already sweating, already panting from wriggling against the harness, the cuffs and collar. He slumps forward in a kind of defeat, hiding his face as he mumbles something incoherent into the mattress.

“What was that?” Chas asks, even though he knows - he won’t make this easy for John, that’s not the point.

_”Chas.”_

“Yeah, John?”

He grunts and buries his face in the rumpled blankets. “Please?”

“Please what, John?”

It’s a silly game, but John’s skin is flushed with shame and desire and that’s what Chas gets out of this, he gets to see how much John wants it.

John turns his head just enough to glare up at Chas from the corner of his eye. “Please, Daddy,” he snarls. “Help me open my other present?”

“Since you asked so _nicely…”_ Chas grabs the second package, and then he grabs John. With his arm around the smaller man’s waist he scoots back against the pillows and the headboard, opens his legs so that John sits between them. He leans back, bringing John with him - nuzzles into his hair and breathes in the smell of cigarettes no soap could ever fully wash away. 

John lies helpless against Chas’ chest, Chas’ knees bracketing his hips, and he’s not a small man but Chas is something of a giant and he enjoys this, enjoys the way he enfolds John’s body like he’d use up the rest of his lives shielding John from harm.

He’s not careful when he opens the package, breaks the ribbon and tears at the paper until it’s a pile of silver shreds in John’s lap. And then there’s the box - wood carved with the phases of the moon, with Orion’s Belt and astrological alignments Chas could never begin to understand.

Somehow he manages to slow down, even though he thinks he’s more excited and nervous to see John’s reaction than John is to see his gift. “I don’t know, now,” Chas mouths into the skin behind John’s ear, “maybe we should save this one for later.”

John gives a little jerk in his arms, appetite whetted. And Chas can’t help the eager roll of his own hips, rubbing himself off on John’s naked ass. He could do it - he could hold John Constantine tight, using his writhing body in his own way, for his own pleasure. The rational part of Chas’ brain knows John would _hate_ that; the hungry, animal part thinks he’d _love it._

“Yeah,” Chas says as though he’s reached a decision. He starts to move the box aside. “Later.”

He senses John’s eyes tracking the box, knows that by denying him, it’s suddenly become everything he wants in the world. “Won’t be me birthday later, Daddy.” God, John’s voice is almost _sweet_ when he says it. “I’ve been a good lad, haven’t I?” When he grinds down on Chas’ cock it’s almost fucking heaven. “Please?”

Chas’ heart’s racing and he has to take a moment to breathe, hiding his own desperation in the nape of John’s neck. A part of him can’t believe that this is real, that John’s letting him take this so far. But then again, John’s never really needed a push - it’s always been Chas who pulls back at the last moment, who runs and hides because it’s all so wrong, he shouldn’t want to do this to John, shouldn’t want to hurt him and shame him until he cries.

It could shift so easily - it always starts off as a game, but Chas knows it won’t end that way. There’s too much anger buried in him - for all the times that John has lied to him, tricked him, used him - for everything John has taken from him; and there’s too much self-loathing in John to fight it.

He turns his head just enough so that his lips are visible in profile as they shape his name. “Chas?”

John knows the risks, but he trusts Chas with this all the same. John trusts _anger_ and he trusts _pain_ and when Chas hurts him, _Chas_ of all people, it just might be the closest thing to love he’s ever allowed himself.

So Chas stops teasing. He opens the box - he can tell the exact moment John recognizes what’s inside - feels the hitch of breath against his chest. John doesn’t say anything right away, which means he’s thinking; Chas’ stomach drops and keeps falling.

“You trying to shut me up, Chas?”

“Never.” Chas gives John what he hopes is a reassuring squeeze - technically speaking he has the advantage, here, but he needs John to believe he won’t take it.

“What’s this about, then?” John asks, but he’s leaning back into Chas’ arms again, angling his neck in invitation, and his voice is low and tempting.

Chas nips and sucks at the offered skin, earning him a soft, pleased hum. “I’ll still hear you, Johnny,” he says. “Every moan, every whimper.”

John’s trembling; Chas can’t tell if it’s from adrenaline or the strain of holding his position. “If I need to use my word?”

The safeword had been more for Chas’ benefit than anything else. John has yet to use it to stop their play, but Chas feels better knowing it’s there. That John asks about it now sends a double-edged thrill of power and guilt straight to Chas’ cock.

“You could hum ‘Happy Birthday’ if you need to stop,” Chas suggests.

“Chas…”

He’s never seen John like this, shaking all over, voice cautious with something that sounds like hope. “We don’t have to use it,” Chas whispers, strokes his belly and gives John’s cock a friendly squeeze. “Your call.”

There’s another tense moment of silence, and Chas is just about ready to close the lid on this one, but then John’s ducking his head in a nod. “Okay,” he says. “Just don’t get cocky.”

Chas doesn’t have words, so he kisses John’s shoulder and lifts the black leather gag from its box. “Open,” he says, and John obeys, letting Chas slide the gag between his teeth and buckle the straps at the back of his head. “Okay?” Chas asks, checking to make sure nothing’s too tight, that John can breathe easily and comfortably. 

John bites down on the leather, testing it against his teeth before he nods. If nothing else, it could help relieve his oral fixation.

Chas moves back against the headboard, pulling John with him, into his lap. It feels somehow _wrong_ even thinking it, but John is gorgeous like this. It’s not the leather straps or the way the gag fits so snug against his mouth; it has little to do with the bondage itself and everything to do with the fact that it’s John fucking Constantine who’s helpless in his arms.

Chas remembers something of those old fertility cults that sacrificed their king or high priest so that the earth could be reborn; the crops planted and harvested and the change of seasons determined by the vitality of the king. It has a strange, Christian flavor to it - the killing of one god so that another might be born. John could probably expound upon it, but that’s not the point of this. John’s not a king and he’s not a god, but the way he allows Chas to bend and manipulate him into position makes him seem like so much more.

Chas gets John to lie face down over his lap. With his arms restrained behind him, John can do little more than squirm, trying to get his cock in a good position to rub against Chas’ thigh. Which angles John’s ass into the air, the curve of it fitting nicely into Chas’ hand. He begins massaging and kneading the muscle group, and John all but turns to butter under his ministrations.

“So how old are you now, Johnny?” Chas asks. “Forty?”

John makes an insulted noise and twists his neck to shoot Chas a pointed look.

“Kidding,” Chas laughs. “Although...I do need to know. For your birthday spanking.”

John’s eyes go wide and he makes another noise behind the gag. The look he gives Chas could take paint off the walls, but over the years, Chas has developed a kind of immunity.

“It’s thirty-three, right?” he asks, even though he knows the answer. “One for each year...I hope you appreciate what I’m doing for you. My hand’s gonna be sore later.”

He starts off slow and easy, warming John up - kneads and massages flesh that’s still stinging and red in the shape of his hand. At first John is quiet, fury drawn deep in the furrow of his brow. He’s just tolerating the sharp slap of Chas’ hand on his ass, not really _experiencing_ it.

Which simply won’t do at all. The first time Chas puts some real muscle into it, John makes a startled noise and lurches a bit in Chas’ lap. As though he didn’t really expect Chas to rise to the occasion.

And if Chas’ palm feels like it’s on fire after he lays three fast, targeted swats to the soft curve of John’s ass, it’s worth it - worth it for the way John whimpers and squirms on Chas’ knee. His cock is hard against Chas’ thigh and they’re not even halfway through and Chas already wants to throw John face down on the mattress and fuck him until he forgets his own name.

But that’s not the point of this, Chas reminds himself, and the next trio of blows has John squeezing his eyes shut and howling into the gag.

“Aren’t you glad I got this?” Chas asks, traces the leather edges where they press into John’s cheek. “You can yell - “

_Smack._

“ - and curse - “

_Smack!_

“ - and cry - “

_SMACK._

“ - just as much as you want.”

John’s body is tense, anticipating. He says something that sounds like it might be “bloody wanker” but the words are muffled by the gag.

“Ssh,” Chas soothes him, strokes John’s bright red backside, works his knuckles into the knotted muscles he finds. “Relax, you’re doing great.”

John huffs, but loosens up a little under Chas’ touch. Allows himself the comfort; soaks up the praise.

Chas thinks John is beautiful like this, like a martyr sculpted in Renaissance marble, his suffering terrifying and sublime. Chas thinks these kinds of things, sometimes, but he can’t say them aloud - both because John would laugh at him, and because how do you tell someone who’s damned to Hell that suffering looks good on them?

Instead Chas says, “Almost there,” and strikes a brutal, upward-cutting blow.

John jumps, taken off guard, and actually _screams_ into the gag. Chas never expected to get that sort of sound out of John - the kind of bone deep, shudder-inducing noise that Chas knows will play prominently in his fantasies for a long time to come. 

John’s skin is blistering hot, burning to the touch, and spanking him now is as much an ordeal for Chas, especially when John thrashes and struggles and then finally goes limp, all the resistance draining out of him at once. He’s so still and quiet for a moment Chas thinks he’s passed out, but when he stops to really listen he can hear John making these soft little keening sounds that get mostly lost in the gag.

The final blow is barely a tap, but John twitches like he’s been touched with a branding iron. Chas shushes him, pulls him up and back against his chest. John goes easily, limbs pliable, his head dropping back onto Chas’ shoulder as Chas nuzzles his throat and whispers in his ear, “Happy birthday, Johnny.”

*

The first thing to come off is the gag. John’s cheeks are flushed and streaked with tears and there are little impressions around his mouth in spite of Chas’ efforts to keep the straps loose. 

John works his jaw, licks some moisture back into his lips, sucks and nibbles at Chas’ fingers when they get too close. Like he misses the gag. He whines when Chas takes his hand away, circles his hips and grinds his ass down on Chas’ cock, and fuck - they’re both still hard, both still aching.

John has explained subspace to Chas before, and he gets it, but fucking John like this has always made him nervous. Not the fucking itself, but how much Chas loves it - loves how soft and eager and needy John becomes, looping loose arms around Chas’ neck when he finally gets the harness off - loves the way he can lay John down on the mattress and kiss him deep as he pushes into John’s already stretched and lubricated hole.

When John’s like this, Chas can be gentle. He can take his time working his cock all the way inside, take the time to worship John with his hands and mouth and whispered prayers that would normally make John hiss and spit like an angry cat.

Fucking John when he's like this is terrifying, because it doesn’t feel like fucking at all - it’s too intimate, too deep, too much like making love. And he can only have John like this when he’s blissed out of his mind on endorphins, after Chas has spent the better part of the evening abusing and humiliating and dominating him.

But it’ll be worth it, later, when Chas has gotten John a glass of orange juice and rubbed aloe into all the sore spots - when John has fallen asleep in his arms, and Chas can rest knowing that he’s safe, for now.


End file.
